Distant Dreams (12 page)

“I do declare, Mr. Baldwin, we are very nearly close enough to share secrets.”

James’ lopsided boyish smile invaded his serious expression. “Do tell, Miss Adams. Is there a secret you wish to share?”

Virginia lowered her face slightly and raised her eyes in a manner she must have known to have a devastating effect on suitors. “Perhaps,” she said rather breathlessly, “if we knew each other better.”

“Then we must make it so,” James replied. “I think I might enjoy hearing secrets from one as lovely as you.”

When the music ended, Virginia excused herself. James watched her sweep from the room, captivated by her elegance and grace. She had proved delightful company. No talk of locomotives or mathematics here, he thought, with a curious glance to see where Carolina might have taken herself.

As the music once again played a popular tune, James spotted Carolina on the arm of Riegel Worth, an old school chum. She seemed bored with his oafish attempt at sociable dancing; nevertheless she remained perfectly companionable and attentive. James thought to rescue her when the music ended, but she looked up and met his gaze; then, as if reading his intentions, she latched quickly on to the arm of Riegel and pointed him in the direction of the refreshment table. Laughing to himself, James dismissed thoughts of interrupting her respite and made his way toward the veranda for a breath of fresh air.

“James! I thought I’d lost you to this houseful of beauties,” Leland joked with a hearty laugh. “Have you made your greetings to the Adamses?” he asked, nodding toward that very pair who were with him on the veranda.

“Good evening, Mrs. Adams,” James said, giving a formal bow. “Mr. Adams.”

“James, your father tells me you are leaning toward a career in the railroad,” Joseph said enthusiastically. James felt a flood of relief as the man continued. “I have great interest in the locomotive myself.”

“It’s a booming business,” James related. “I feel confident this is just the beginning of something truly great.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Joseph confided.

“James, I saw you dancing with Virginia Adams,” his mother said as she joined the group. “You make a handsome couple.”

“She is quite a beauty!” Leland exclaimed. “You’d have to go far to find another as lovely and well suited to becoming a wife.”

James looked up to catch a glimpse of pink satin as Carolina Adams passed the entrance to the ballroom on the arm of a uniformed young man.

“Quite so,” he said enthusiastically. “Why, it is uncanny how one family could have produced such a brood of lovely sisters. A man would be fortunate to marry any one of them.”

Margaret seemed pleased at this but quickly added, “You are too kind, but, of course, our Virginia must marry first since she is the eldest, and then we will consider suitors for Carolina. It would hardly be fair to allow the younger ones to outwit their siblings for proper marriages.”

It seemed a silly and antiquated tradition to James. But he had no inclination to argue the point. Besides, Virginia was the one he’d been instructed to consider. There was little sense in giving further attention where . . . anyone else was concerned. Virginia was clearly a beauty not to be ignored, and her head wasn’t bulging with unfeminine notions about science and railroads.

Leland, seeming to rescue James from making further comment, said, “I know we’d be quite happy if our James and your Virginia should find each other to be of interest.”

“As would Mrs. Adams and myself,” said Joseph.

James knew with those words, however subtle, a bargain had been all but struck. He made no protest. He and Virginia Adams would indeed make a fine couple. They would raise their own brood of beautiful children. And he could still happily pursue his love of the railroad.

12

York Adams

York Adams reached a hand up to his cheek and pulled it away crimson with blood. His blood. He stared evenly at the man who’d just now inflicted the wound.

“So you’re no longer a pretty rich boy,” the man chuckled.

“Your guard must have fallen off your rapier, Bedford,” York panted. They had already been hard at this twenty minutes. It had been a brutal match, but York had never expected to see blood drawn.

“Did it now?” sneered York’s opponent.

“I would give you the benefit of the doubt, at least, considering that this was intended as a gentlemen’s exercise.”

“That’s the trouble with you plantation gentry,” the man countered. “You believe the entire world runs on gentlemen’s rules of order. Well, I’ve news for you, Adams. The world is neither interested in nor concerned overmuch with your rules.” Bedford smiled, but not in a friendly manner. “I would make this
exercise
a bit more sporting.”

“You must be crazy.”

York looked at the man, clearly seeing the hatred in his eyes. Hatred that York felt was undeserved and unearned. Bedford was new to the university, but since his arrival he had been hostile toward

York and several of his friends. It had been subtle at first, and York had sought to befriend the man. But finding no success in that, he had deemed it best to ignore him. York had never been able to figure out the cause of the man’s animosity beyond vague regional differences, for Bedford was from New York. But when Bedford had suggested the fencing match, York, viewing it as an overture of friendship, had accepted. Now he saw that friendship was the farthest thing from the man’s mind.

“Well,” taunted Bedford, “are you going to fight like a man, or would you hide behind your mother’s skirts, you southern dandy?” As if to punctuate his words, Bedford lunged again with his unshielded rapier.

York sidestepped, avoiding the thrust, but now he was angry. York lifted his rapier and prepared to continue the fight. “I see now you had no intention of this being a friendly bout. No doubt you have no idea at all what it means to be a gentleman.” Popping the guard from his rapier, York lunged forward, catching the man’s shirtsleeve. It tore the material in a quick sweep but drew no blood.

The man stepped back and stared hard at York for a moment. “Your quaint little world leaves no room for growth. Things are very seldom what they appear, Adams. You can never trust appearance in any form.”

“You talk too much, Bedford,” York decreed, making a wide sweep with the rapier.

“I couldn’t agree more,” a voice said, coming from behind York. At this, both York and Bedford came to attention. It was their fencing instructor.

“Sir,” they responded in unison.

“Fencing has never been dependent upon the tongue, gentlemen.” The man stepped up to York and noted the cut. “Mr. Bedford, that will be twenty demerits for wounding a fellow student. I believe that brings you to a total of one hundred. Will you pay a fine or do the time?”

“I protest, sir!”

“Indeed?” The instructor did not seem surprised. “Did you or did you not intentionally mark this man’s face?”

Richard Bedford glanced at York with a smirking air. “Is it my fault he is a poor swordsman? He did not protect himself, and I was unable to stop the assault.”

“And whose idea was it to remove the shields from the rapiers?” demanded the instructor.

“We both agreed,” said York quickly. He’d show that northern scalawag how a true gentleman—a southern gentleman!—behaved.

Bedford glowered at York but said nothing.

“It is understood when you enter this classroom that the utmost care is to be given the opponent. I see no reason to be lenient to either of you. You both knew the rules. Your demerits will stand, Bedford, and I will see you at the end of the day. Mr. Adams, you too shall have twenty demerits. Now, I suggest you take care of that cut.”

“Yes, sir.” York watched the instructor walk away, then turned to Richard Bedford. “I demand to know what your grievance is against me!”

Bedford shrugged, as though his earlier hatred meant nothing. “I forgot myself. I simply got caught up in the heat of the moment.” He brushed back sweat-soaked blond hair and noted the cut in his sleeve. “This shirt cost a pretty penny. I suppose it matters little to one of your status. No doubt you’d simply order another one made by your slave labor.”

“Is that what this was about? Shirts? If that is so, take your choice from among my own. A simple shirt is not worth a fight.”

Bedford laughed. “You take everything far too personally, Adams.”

York narrowed his eyes. “Wasn’t this personal?”

Bedford’s face grew menacingly dark. “No,” he stated in a voice of icy calm. “If this had been personal, you would have known it.”

York’s confusion over Bedford’s actions followed him into his lecture on “Political Debate and the U.S. Government.” He always looked forward to this class because it provided a forum for discussion on some of the many political views of the day. In his last two years at the university, York had discovered within himself a passion for politics, and now in his last year, he had settled upon politics to be his future direction. The fencing session, however, took away some of his zest about the class. York had always managed to steer clear of trouble in school. He was generally well liked by his peers and his professors. Thus, Bedford’s unwarranted antagonism was disturbing indeed.

“Gentlemen, we will come to order,” a stately older man said, taking the podium.

York quickly found an empty seat and tried to focus on the professor’s introduction of the subject. Professor Samuel Bainbridge was the best in his field, and York felt honored to have a place in his class.

“We find ourselves as subject to no man, save that one man whom we elect,” began Bainbridge in a practiced orator’s tone. “The monarchy is dead in this country, although some might debate that fact given our current President, King Andrew the First.” Laughter followed this, though York could not truly agree.

York liked Andrew Jackson, a longtime friend of his father. Jackson understood the needs of the plantation owner, and York admired the way he’d handled foreign affairs. Joseph Adams had told his son that Jackson was often more bluff than gruff, and never was it so true as when dealing with opposing nations and international breeches of agreement. One of York’s favorite stories, in fact, centered around the 1832 affair of Naples, in which King Bomba had issued multiple excuses for not paying the United States due monies. Jackson had taken the affair in stride and sent his commissioner to Naples to personally receive the payment. It was in true Jacksonian style that he also sent Master Commandant Daniel T. Patterson and five men-of-war ships. The ships sailed boldly into the Bay of Naples, firing their cannons, but only as an honorary salute due the king, Jackson had stated. The apparent bluff worked, as the commissioner sailed home with the money due the U.S., and Jackson established himself as a man to be reckoned with.

The professor was continuing. “Today we find ourselves faced with an ever growing country and the problems that accompany such a state of affairs. As with any growing family, there needs to be addressed the issues of housing, clothing, feeding, and the general well-being of those involved. Jackson wears his grudges against Henry Clay as a cape of indifference towards his American System. The views of strengthening the West—albeit Jackson hails from Tennessee—appear to wane in the White House for fear of giving credit to his adversary.”

“I hardly think that the reason, sir,” York protested without thought.

The old man, with his thick mop of gray hair and matching gray muttonchop whiskers and bushy eyebrows, was of strict and severe temperament. He permitted debate in his class, even demanded it, but only at his bidding and never in the midst of his lectures, which he considered akin to the prophecies of God. He halted his lecture and stared long and hard at the source of interruption.

“You have something to add to this lecture, Mr. Adams?”

York glanced around him at the now silenced room. His classmates stared at him as though he’d gone mad. Richard Bedford was throwing York another smirking glare, which only had the effect of riling York further.

“I . . . I simply feel if we are to address this particular subject fairly and impartially,” York began in a halting voice, “we should eliminate supposition and speak only on the facts at hand.”

The professor’s eyes narrowed. “And you suppose I have not done this?” His tone was indignant.

“When you make a statement such as you did, suggesting the President is opposed to Clay’s proposals because of purely personal conflict, I believe you are interjecting supposition for fact.”

“And what might those facts be, Mr. Adams?”

There was a steadily rising murmur from among the students, and York realized he’d opened his mouth in a way that would not allow him to simply bow out gracefully in apologetic retreat. Not that he desired to do so. Still, he’d not set out to disrupt the lecture, either.

“Henry Clay’s proposed American System virtually ignores the southern states,” York stated, drawing a deep calming breath. “To pay homage to the plight of the western territories and their need to sell surplus crops and livestock to the eastern coastal states, while turning a deaf ear to the equally important needs of the southern states, is signing a death warrant to that population. Clay’s approach does not allow for the development of the South either through industrial incentive or through internal improvements such as railroads and highways. To ignore those states jeopardizes the very structure of southern living.”

“You mean it threatens your peculiar little institution, don’t you?” Richard Bedford called out.

“Slavery is not the only issue related to the South,” York said with a sigh. “Not every southerner, in fact, very few southerners actually own slaves, so even if you are in opposition to that institution, you can hardly condemn an entire population.”

“I condemn anyone who stands by and allows for one man to own another. Henry Clay may not come out straightforth and speak it in his proposed plans for the development of this great nation, but I believe the underlying fact remains that perhaps the South, or at least its peculiarities, should die out.”

“And what would you replace it with?” York questioned angrily. “Immigrant labor of the type found in northern factories? Are those people treated any better than slaves? Nay, I for one say they are treated worse. They live in squalor, bedding down in tiny dormitories owned by the factory. They are paid a wage and then that wage is stripped from them for their room and board, leaving little with which to do otherwise. They work sometimes as much as seven days a week in twelve- to sixteen-hour shifts. Is that northern freedom and compassion?”